


Echo in the Attic

by BelladonnaLee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dead Character, Don’t copy to another site, Gothic, Incest (or is it?), M/M, Obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 04:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17801123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaLee/pseuds/BelladonnaLee
Summary: In the attic where forgotten things and forsaken things languish and dream in their coffins, Harry looks into the mirror and sees a face that looks so much like him and yet not like him.





	Echo in the Attic

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
> 
> A/N: Written for HP Darkarts' _My Bloody Valentine 2019_.

Pale moonlight spilled down the skylight and into the dusky attic, where boxes of forgotten things and forsaken things were piled in shadowy corners, corpses dreaming and waiting in their cardboard coffins. Several pieces of old furniture stood against the far wall, their bulky frames shrouded in large white sheet, ghosts watching over the happenings in the dark and keeping their silence.

Just beyond the reach of moonlight, a mirror was propped against the wall, full-length and devoid of a frame. Its depth reflected a world of silver moonlight and shadows, and it revealed no secrets of its own. In the gloom of the attic, the mirror gave the impression of being suspended in the air, a portal to another world of moonlight and shadows.

A sliver of candlelight floated ever upwards from a large hole in the floor, and along with it came the creaking of a wooden staircase. Clad in a flowing black robe, Harry climbed out of the hole and into the attic, his movement nimble and without hesitation. Clutched in his hand was a silver candlestick, upon which was secured a tall black candle. The tiny flame burnt dimly in the dark; on the other side of the looking glass, a tiny flame glowed like a firefly.

Moving in a trance, Harry glided barefoot towards the mirror, his robe billowing in his wake, and the wooden floor creaked beneath his feet. With bated breath he looked into the mirror. A face stared back at him, a face that looked very much like him and yet not like him: messy dark hair, a thin, pallid face, round glasses, sensual lips parted as if about to speak. Hungry hazel eyes gazed deeply into Harry's hungry green eyes, as if willing Harry to fall into their depths.

James Potter, forever twenty-one.

Harry reached out a hand to James, and James reached out a hand to him. Their hands, looking so alike that they could be one and the same, met upon the cold glass, palm to palm. "I've turned twenty-one today, Dad," Harry whispered while James mouthed words he could not hear. "And now I'm just like you." And James smiled, and Harry smiled with him.

Stooping down, Harry placed the candlestick on the floor in front of the mirror and straightened up. Candlelight flickered; shadows stirred. When he looked up, he found his father staring at him with unbridled longing, longing that he could feel keenly deep inside of him, resonating, throbbing, rippling ever outwards from the core of his existence.

Under James' dark, watchful gaze, Harry slowly undid the clasp on his robe and slipped out of the enfolding black velvet. James too slipped out of his black robe and revealed himself. Two robes fluttered to the ground with barely a rustle and were swiftly forgotten. Reduced to nothing but flesh and skin, father and son stood facing each other, the living and the dead separated by a sheet of glass.

"See?" Harry murmured. Like a child peering into the window of his favourite sweet shop, he greedily took in every inch of James' naked body, every curve, every line, every hollow and every peak. On the other side of the looking glass, James too feasted his heated eyes on Harry's naked body, leaving nothing undiscovered. In the enveloping warmth of the attic, Harry felt almost feverish.

"We are the same down there too," someone murmured in a voice so much like Harry's.

As if nothing was more natural in this world, James ran his hands over his own body, examining, fondling, playing with himself. All the while Harry was watching and feeling a pair of hands glide down his body, exploring and caressing and loving him. They were at once his hands and James' hands. His heart pounded in his chest as if on the verge of breaking, and he was panting, panting for James.

Ghosts and shadows looked on in silence as Harry touched himself while watching James touch himself while watching him, a reflection within a reflection that would never end. When they reached the tipping point of their little death, they shuddered and moaned and shattered and came.

Like a puppet whose strings were cut, Harry sank to the floor, and James sank with him, two puppets falling together in the guttering candlelight. With glazed eyes they gazed at each other, so young and weary and lost, and they gazed at the white fluid spattered upon the mirror like blood, their blood.

Feeling strangely empty and light, Harry smeared the fluid with his finger, his fingertip meeting James' fingertip. "Dad," he said in a small voice while running his finger over his father's lips, lips that he longed to taste. "I love you," Harry and James whispered in unison before leaning into each other, their lips meeting in a kiss as cold as glass.

The silver candlestick toppled over and clattered to the ground, spilling black candle wax onto the wooden floor, and with barely a whimper the candlelight flickered and died.

* * * * * * *

_Finis._


End file.
